Gabriel gathered up the photos. “I’d like to see the ravine where you found the car. And we should probably have a look at the villa as well.”
“It will be getting dark soon. I’ll take you in the morning.”
“Not tomorrow,” said Gabriel. “Now, please.”
“If it were anyone but you,” said the detective, and rose reluctantly to her feet.
10
Sant Miquel
Her car was an unmarked Citroën. She drove it very fast, with the swollen hand balanced atop the wheel.
“What happened?” asked Gabriel.
“I’m sorry?”
He indicated the damaged appendage.
“A suspect foolishly tried to resist arrest.”
“And so you hit him?”
“Several times.” With a sideways glance she added, “I’m a black belt.”
“Which discipline?”
“Karate.”
“Unsightly but effective.”
“Are you a martial artist?”
“No,” lied Gabriel. “I’m a real artist.”
“What do you do in your spare time?”
“I search for missing British socialites. They don’t give you a belt for that sort of thing.” They were hurtling along Ibiza’s main north–south highway. The terrain around them was parched and brown. It reminded Gabriel of the valley of his youth. “And what was the poor chap’s crime?” he asked.
“The man I hit? He was dealing drugs in the nightclubs.”
“Isn’t that why people come to Ibiza in the first place? To take drugs in nightclubs?”
“Some,” she admitted. “For better or worse, we are the party capital of Europe.”
“Surely you’re not from here.”
“The north,” she answered.
“Aragón?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. An old Moorish village called Alquézar.”
“What brought you to Ibiza?”
“A man, if you must know.”
“Is he still around?”
